


With Sun at your Back

by BeastofZodiac



Category: Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Liberation of Meridian, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 06:10:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13024908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeastofZodiac/pseuds/BeastofZodiac
Summary: History has an odd sense of humor, often repeating itself and practicing its twists on different fates and lives. What began as a tale of two escapees and two escapes leads to a revolution that changes the shape of entire tribes. But in the end, it always comes back down to the two people in the midst of it all.





	With Sun at your Back

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a gift for a friend I found in the _Horizon_ fandom who happens to be an avid Ersa fan, but who recently found themselves depressed and saddened by things, and seemed like they could use something to cheer them up. Please, enjoy!

The sun was already far beyond the horizon, and no trace was left of its presence in the pitch-black sky.

Meridian’s royal palace was dark and silent. _‘Almost peaceful,’_ Ersa thought. Almost. The air was somehow always bitter, as if the Sun’s work tainted it with its death and despair during the day. But at least at night, there were no screams from the Citadel. No sickening sound of human flesh and bone crushed beneath metal hooves of machines. But the silence, while comforting, was her worst enemy. Even the slightest sound that would be drowned out by day now resonated through the ornate walls. Every step she took and move she made had to be careful, slow and deliberate to avoid noise, but all the while she was desperately fighting for time.

She had to take just enough with her to travel light and fast. A short Kestrel blade. Handful of explosive pellets and a sling. But also enough to survive without having to stray near settlements. A pack of food. Spare clothes to shake pursuers. All stolen from Meridian, scrounged and scrambled together as if she were the lowest common thief. Every now and again, she paused and listened to the silence, making sure that she was not discovered, that there is no sound of weapons being drawn or sharp orders given.

So when a polite “ahem” cut the air, she almost jumped out of her skin.

She turned, hand flying to where the Carja blade waited hidden under her clothes, and she tried to move to conceal her secret stash. She expected armored guard ready to cut her down or drag her to the Sun Ring, and she would do her damn best to take as many of them down with her as she could.

Instead, a single figure stood in the doorway, framed by the soft light coming from the room outside Ersa’s hiding spot. A silhouette she knew very well. It belonged to a soft-spoken Carja man, one who always had too many questions about her home and her tribe, the one piece that somehow felt misplaced in the whole mosaic of cruelty that was the Meridian palace and in the process, the one closest thing she’d found to a friend in the past months. But also the one she was made a slave to. Mad King’s son.

His face showed no sign of surprise or anger, no cause for alarm. As if this was something he’d expected to find, maybe even some time ago. He seemed to study her expression for a while, and Ersa realized her actions were being second-guessed. Finally, he moved to join her in the darkened corner, and when she made no attempt to stop him, he leaned against the sandstone balustrade a few steps away, as if this was to be just another one of their long talks about the Claim.

For a while, the night’s silence came back to cover them both.

“A fine night,” the Sun prince said after a while, searching the overcast sky the same way one reads a book he’s held a hundred times. “No moon or stars... and many dark places to hide.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbled defensively and bristled at the chuckle that sentence raised with him. He didn’t give a straight answer, just a sidelong glance that made her feel like the second worst liar in history.

“I would assume anyone wanting to leave the palace would intend to scale the Evening gate and then try to sneak through the city. Leave through eastern palisades and head for Brightmarket.”

She didn’t move an inch as he spoke, but somehow felt herself being steered into a corner.

“Some commoner’s clothes would help blend in on trading routes. Of course, keeping clear of people would still be required, as the robe alone would hardly fool anyone. But with enough luck, Brightmarket would hold as a temporary shelter, before this person would figure out how she would cross the Daybrink. A good plan.” Avad’s voice suddenly gained a cold edge. “Unfortunately for that person, she will never leave the Palace that way. She will be subdued before she clears the gate.”

Her metaphorical back hit the wall. Her fingers never left the hilt of the concealed blade and now they tightened around it hard enough to hurt. This is where he raises the alarm, it has to be. And by the Forge, she didn’t want to harm him.

“I understand,” he says instead after a careful pause. “I would like you to know that much.”

Too late she realized that if he had any doubts about what was going on, all it took was two looks at her and he’d now know for sure, her intentions made clear for him to see by the way she was coiling up with every second, ready to spring. “If you came to gloat, then skip it and call the guards already,” she bit back sharply. It was easier to take up the frustration with him instead, even with her conscience nagging that he didn’t deserve it.

“I came to offer my help,” he said, turning to face her for the first time. She could see he was unarmed. “That is, unless you **insist** on using that,” he nodded towards her hand still clenching the weapon at her side.

“Why?” she asked automatically before she could think twice about it.

“You wish to return home. No one can hold that against you.”

 _‘Pffyeah, plenty who’ll try,’_ she knew, but this time, she stopped herself in time. He always said notions like that as if it was the most obvious and natural thing in the world, and she was always fighting the urge to scream it wasn’t. That not everyone was as meek and open-minded, that there were men and women who wore cruelty as a badge of pride. That even if she was treated well, her friend was still her owner by his tribe’s law and others died a torturous death in the Ring. Or worse.

They’d had this conversation before, and it got harder with every repetition. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him, but at the same time, it was hard not to resent Mad King’s blood.

She knew he had tried his best to play peacekeeper, to soften his father’s burning anger. But he was but the middle son, and Jiran’s sanity was cracking like an field left to dry. All Ersa could do was to keep repeating there was no way to negotiate with a madman, but Avad stubbornly insisted he had to try.

“There is a safer way out,” he broke the silence when she didn’t give an answer. “A passage that leads out of the Palace and into the open fields. It allows to bypass most of the city’s garrisons. If one is careful.” Then he went back to inconspicuously gazing at the night sky. “I mean... just in case you know someone who may find that information useful.”

And just like that, he broke her last line of defense. The young Oseram raised an eyebrow. “No, whatever gave you that idea.” She couldn't be mad at him. This was not an enemy. It was just Avad, the curious man with endless questions about the world both inside and beyond the borders of his world, eager to debate and exchange ideas, treating his personal slave with the same respect he gave to any of the nobles. Even more, if she felt like boosting her own ego. Being what he was... that wasn't his fault. “You really want to help me, huh?” she asked.

“If I say yes, will it spare me from your blade?“ he answered by a question of his own. “You're ready to leave tonight, aren't you?“ he added somberly.

“Yes. To both,” Ersa gestured towards the package she had tried to conceal before.

Avad nodded. It was hard to guess in limited light, but he seemed disappointed. If that was how he felt, he never voiced such sentiment. The heavy pause he took before continuing, however, didn’t go unnoticed. “You probably won't get better chance then. The guards are tending to other matters right now. If you want to leave unseen, I would suggest doing it now,” he said. “Follow me, if you please. And don't try to hide what you're carrying. That only draws attention.”

He had a point. A servant or a slave carrying items was hardly out of the ordinary. She took her supplies and went where he led her, falling into formation she'd grown accustomed to by now; half a step behind him, silently glaring icy daggers at anyone looking at her funny.

He kept mostly silent as they moved through the common rooms. Ersa could hear a guard shuffle about in the floor above, as well as the voice of crown prince Kadaman coming from somewhere nearby.

“Does your brother know what you’re up to?” she asked her guide. It was hard to imagine Avad would leave his beloved elder sibling out of anything important. The prince just shook his head and even in the silent hall, his “no” was barely audible.

Ersa took her time, examining all the word left unspoken. “Thank you,” she said after a while, because it was the simplest thing that came to mind.

Avad smiled over the shoulder. “It's the least I can do.”

When they reached the ground floor, the prince suddenly signaled her to stop. She did as he asked and listened. She wasn't sure what was it that made him nervous, but before she found out, he gently pushed her back into the corridor and put a finger to his lips. He waited before she nodded in understanding, then he quickly moved out of sight. A few heartbeats passed before she heard him from somewhere further down the corridor.

“My apologies, Zahir, is it?” Ersa had to bite her lip to stifle a chuckle at the polite tone. “I saw two men sneaking around the lower gardens. I worry they may be a threat to young Itamen; they were acting rather suspicious. Would you please look into it?”

“Yes, your Highness.”

It was absurd, really. A Carja prince helping a slave escape his own palace in the middle of the night, and he couldn’t even bring himself to raise a commanding voice. She knew it made more sense that way, but the image alone felt so out of place she couldn’t help herfelf. He really didn’t belong here.

“What’s wrong?” Avad snuck back, confused at her bemused expression.

“Nothing, never mind. Can we go?” Ersa managed to put on a more serious face.

“I got rid of the guards. We should be clear.”

“Got rid of”, he called it. She opened her mouth to ask if he really just did the least Avad-like thing imaginable and brazenly lied to his own indentured soldier, but the answer to that was fairly obvious, if a bit hard to believe. So she just bit her tongue and bid him to move.

He stopped at a darkened stairway leading to one of the balconies near the Solarium to look around. When he made sure they were alone, he hopped over the sandstone railing and into a narrow pathway that hugged the mesa below. When Ersa followed him down, she noticed an equally narrow set of stairs leading somewhere up and around the rocky wall before disappearing inside it. If she had to guess, she would have said this entrance led straight to or very close to king’s quarters.

“This is it,” he said, voice low, pointing to an obscured passage partially covered by a vine.

“Where does it lead?” the Oseram asked. Wherever the tunnel went, it was lost to absolute darkness just a few feet in.

“It will safely get you out of the palace. You'll end up in one of the more remote gardens. From there, stick to the western wall, there's a path there you can take.”

Her instinct made her doubt anything too good to be true. This definitely seemed up in that category. “Wait, there’s a convenient underground passage right from under Jiran’s nose?”

The Carja prince shrugged. “It is by far not the only one. You could say my ancestor found himself an... interesting way to pass his time.”

“Well, be sure to thank him for me.” Ersa took a step closer, trying to see more of the path ahead. She could hear water sloshing about somewhere down the ark tunnel. It didn’t seem like the best place to run into a Kestrel. “Don’t guards know about these?”

“Not really, no. Most of the passageways is only mentioned in old notes and historical plans. I wouldn’t call them common knowledge by any stretch.”

Suddenly, a sharp voice rang through the cooling night air and they both went deathly still. But there was no reason to panic. The sound was painfully familiar. The masculine white noise was well-known to everyone living in or around the palace, running the gamut from incoherent mumbling to angry screams, its target most likely a hapless guard, an unlucky servant, the queen, or even nothing in particular. The distance and several walls in the way muffled the words enough to keep them unintelligible, but not even two feet of solid stone were able to silence the outburst. The Mad King living up to his given name.

Ersa could feel her teeth grinding in anger. She shook her head. “And you still want to reason with that?” One more attempt to rattle his mental armor.

“There is nothing else left to do,” came the usual reply.

“He’s a maniac.”

As much as he was always willing to listen to arguments, this was like trying to move a wall. “He is still my father.”

“That’s stupid,” she scoffed.

“Perhaps,” he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes pinned to the edge of the terrace above. “But that is not important right now. You need to get out while you still can.”

It wasn't like him to change the subject, not even an unpleasant one. She tried to decipher his expression in the shadows, attempting to guess what exactly he meant by those last four words. He always patiently insisted there was nothing to do. Only sometimes, on rare occasions, she'd thought she caught him wavering. But just like a bird flying over the sun, it was always gone almost before she could see it.

“Keep the Sun at your back, you cannot get lost,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow in question. “And is that well-wishes or cartographic advice?”

“Both,” he replied. “I will do my best to keep potential pursuers off your trail. The guards will be occupied by their imaginary intruder for a while, that should give you necessary leeway.”

“They won’t find anyone,” she said, hoping the only reason for doing so was her own safety.

Avad’s face twitched with a humorless smirk. “They will not,” he confirmed, “but they won’t dare question their prince.” Before she could say any more, he took a deep breath and nodded towards the passage. “You shouldn’t lose precious time. Travel safe.”

And then it hit her. He didn’t find her by accident, he was looking for her. The strange absence of guards, planned distractions, many supplies she had stolen being left strangely unattended... he did this.

A small smile tugged at her face, and she was surprised herself it felt genuinely grateful. “I always do. Take care of yourself, Sun prince.” It was a debt she doubted they would ever get a chance to settle. But she was glad for its existence either way. The Oseram rebel reached out to shake the Carja prince’s arm. Then, she turned her back to the Sundom and stepped out into the night.

She wondered if she would see the Palace ever again.

\---------------------------

Last remnants of sun’s dying light painted the sky with rivers of freshly spilled crimson rays.

The stone under his hands still held warmth of the day trapped inside it. It used to be that whenever he’d felt down, Avad would just press his back to the stonework that made the bones of Meridian’s palace and let the heat seep in and give him strength. But not tonight. He felt sick, and there was nothing the cold night breeze could do to soothe him. His brother was dead. His father the one who had him murdered.

His mind still fought against that word, but there was no other way to express what had transpired. And every time it came up and he felt a raw, hot wound open somewhere inside his chest, his subconscious thought chimed in to twist the knife even further, speaking with a suspiciously familiar feminine voice. To one murder, it added a hundred more. Hundred brothers and sisters and fathers and daughters who all left a tear in someone’s life. And before today, he was blind to them all. He **chose** to be blind.

Part of him felt completely numb and helpless like a child. That part could only focus on the heart beating madly in his chest and the sickness that came in waves every time his memory brought up his brother’s screams. But there was something else inside him what moved almost like an independent creature. That one already invented a list of things to do and forced his body to follow it, as if he were just another machine fulfilling a scheduled task. While Avad the prince felt paralyzed and didn’t know what to do, that thing – he decided to call it survival instinct – had already set him a goal.

It had him gather all his notes and burn what he could. Call three soldiers by name. Look up maps of various northern territories, take those which could be easily carried and memorize all he could from the rest. Make a list of essentials to bring.

And then he sat and waited, back turned to the fire, staring into the growing darkness outside as if he were challenging it to a duel. He wasn’t certain how long he sat there, spending no thought or motion, before he heard footsteps and an armor-clad fist pound on the door.

Avad swallowed a brief second of uncertainty before inviting them in. To his relief, he was greeted by the faces of the very three men he had summoned. “I apologize for calling you here in such manner,” he heard himself say and was surprised to find his voice steady. “I am sure you have heard by now what has transpired today. Some of you,” he nodded to the man they put to their front, a tall officer with round face, square jaw and sharp grey eyes, “have been there to witness it first-hand. I am forced to believe that if I stay, my own fate will be no different should I remain in Meridian. I intend to leave the city.”

He grew up with eloquent words as his strongest weapon, but while a skilled orator would stick to pretty phrases about fighting injustice, and righteous indignations, Avad spoke in plainest possible words. He told them all, because he couldn’t expect their trust if he didn’t give it in the first place; how he plans to rally the people against the rule he knew they feared, how he’s willing to fight his father if that’s what it takes. And that he asks them to accompany him as an escort and voice of advice.

“I am very well aware that if you agree to my request, it will be a favor a single lifetime could not repay. My own fate is in your hands. If you feel the risk I’m asking you to take is too much, you are free to go. If you feel you should turn me in to my father, I will not stop you; I only ask that you do not incriminate each other.”

He said his last. He watched the faces of the soldiers as he spoke. None of them seemed openly hostile, even though every sentence would see him officially condemned and executed for treason and blasphemy.

As the highest-ranking officer of the three, Balahn took a step forward. “Where are you planning to go?” he asked.

Avad the prince had no answer, but his instinct stepped in. “North, towards the border. If I have an ally for my cause, I’ll find her there. That’s where we’ll get our first reinforcements.” It was, of course, a hope against hope. But had he lost faith now, he suspected he would just give up.

The three men looked at one another as a silent debate went on between them – the kind comrades in arms are able to share; it needs no words because words had happened in the past, it builds on arguments and disputes over meals and campfires, long talks on patrols and training grounds. Then, Balahn got a brief nod from his fellow soldiers and turned back to the prince, his shoulders square at attention demanded from a soldier properly addressing his superior. “It will be our honor to guard you on your journey, your Radiance.”

Avad breathed out a sigh of relief. They talked about the plan more, fleshing out the details. Everything was prepared. There was no reason to dawdle. They would escort him for an evening prayer to the Citadel. And when they lock the door, they would start their escape.

When the doors closed behind them at the Citadel's prayer circle, it wasn’t even half an hour later. They looked at one another one last time, all of them aware the next move would mean no going back.

While his guards, engaging in a quiet debate, shuffled to remove the heavy armor pieces, Avad turned to shed his royal garb the same way a snake sheds a skin that had grown tight enough to choke it.

Instead of bright-colored silks, he dressed anew in the duller cotton and linen shirt and vest common in the streets of the village below the mesa. When he went to tie a headscarf around his forehead, his fingers stopped at the back of his skull. Long hair were a sign of nobility. If here were to pass for a simple merchant...

He raised the dagger from his belt. A few seconds later, the brazier was fed another part of his history. He only now caught what seemed to be the tail end of a longer conversation.

“No matter what, he is the crown prince and heir now. Even priests will have a hard time arguing with that,” Balahn’s voice said somewhere behind him.

Holstering the small dagger, Avad turned to face his new companions, only to find the youngest one dodge his gaze a second too late, suddenly staring intently at the stone floor.

“If it is about second thoughts,” the prince said quietly, “you are still free to change your mind.” It wouldn't have been a simple thing to say two dozen minutes ago in his chambers, let alone now. But it needed to be said.

The younger guard shook his head. “It's... ehm... no. But...” At loss for words, he turned to the de-facto leader of the small party.

“Of all the soldiers in Meridian, why choose us?” Balahn asked in his comrade’s stead. He was always more direct than most soldiers. Impudent, the king called him, blaming the cold northern blood in his veins.

“I have known you for years. Your names were the first that came to mind when I asked myself who to trust,” Avad said. It was only true as far as his own tribe was concerned. “You taught me how to fight, Talarim,” he nodded to the older man standing at the door. “You were the one to tell me that when you cross swords with a man and look him in the eye, it is the only moment he cannot lie about who he is.”

The armored Carja smiled with the tinge of pride every teacher feels when he sees his lessons are remembered.

“You, Idar,” Avad turned to the youngest of the three, “whenever you stood guard by my door, you were always kind to whoever entered, noble or slave. I saw you defend an old Nora hunter against a priest of our own tribe.”

The young soldier shrugged, shrinking under the scrutiny, and mumbled that it would’ve been rude not to, and Avad hummed in content as his point was proven right.

“And you, lieutenant...” he turned back to Balahn. “You were there today. I have seen your face when my --” It was hard to say, but it he needed to say it, or he wouldn’t believe it to be true. “You saw when the king ordered to have my brother dragged into that accursed pit for standing up to him.” Avad’s voice finally broke and he had to clench his teeth as his mind summoned the image again. When he looked at Balahn, he could see in his face that the man’s memory was as vicious as his own, and he knew he didn’t need to say any more.

The soldier just nodded and squeezed Avad’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture so far out of protocol boundaries it would give high priest Bahavas a stroke.

Avad smiled for the first time in what felt like years and finished dressing up. Three plainly clad guards and an ordinary merchant were about to spearhead a revolution. At least should they survive the night.

The three Avad chose were no shining exceptions. There were more good men and women throughout the city, he knew, commoners and soldiers alike. But these three were all he dared take. None of them had families to hold them back, but any of their friends would still be in danger. Leaving meant that his father’s wrath could befall anyone. But it had to be done. There were no good choices. All he could do was hope that others will join the fight when the right time comes.

While instinct compelled him to move on, Avad the prince uttered a silent prayer to the Sun to protect his only remaining brother from their father’s ire. It was all he could do. For now.

They left the palace, eager to put as much distance between it and them before the night was over. But Avad was certain of one thing; he would see this place again. And when that happened, he would be ready to change it.

\---------------------------

The sun cast its rays from high above, holding the city on the mesa in an almost motherly embrace.

It took months of preparations and plans. Hours of negotiations and talks with commoners and merchants and soldiers and priests. They had left Meridian as four men, but arrived to the northern gates as a group of nine. For the Oseram, they had been at first only means to an end. But an opportunity to get back at a hated enemy turned into tentative alliance, then into partnership, until both the man and his cause became not just a figurehead, but someone worthy of their time and following. And now, there were hundreds of them.

They tore off chunks of the brittle Sundom one settlement at a time, their forces strengthening with each of their opponent’s losses, until all that was left was Meridian – the shining city on the mesa that was ready to rip itself apart from the inside.

Until one morning, the early light of day found the Palace of the Sun shaken to its core. Generations-old walls shook with each deafening impact as Oseram canons relentlessly roared on their offensive. Stone crumbled away, raining dust and gravel dozens of feet below. The attack came from three sides. Besides the canonfire, the main bulk of their force assaulted the main gate head on. And the third group was just them. Ersa, her brother and the disgraced Carja prince to lead them.

They snuck into the city through the secret underground paths. Avad took them through the small winding maze of tunnels that were mostly left unused for decades, mainly remnants of the time the city was built. Most of its inhabitants had no idea they existed, but the prince knew his home well. It was the elaborate maps he had brought and drawn that convinced most of the freebooters they had a fighting chance.

Still, as much as they kept a low profile they couldn’t avoid everything.

“Company, dead ahead,” Ersa said when they climbed up to the eastern garden. There was no way to bypass them on the narrow street. The small mixed group of three Kestrels and a few city guards standing against them was just a fraction of the opposition they expected. Avad tried talking them down, but they refused to listen. The usual insults were thrown their way and weapons were drawn and pointed.

All three of them were forced to fight, just like they had been many times over the course of the past months. At this point, they didn’t even have to think about what to do. Both Oseram acted as a vanguard, brute force and solid steel dealing what was basically collateral damage, while Avad, covered by their defenses, lashed out to strike with precision.

She sometimes teased him about the sharpened Glinthawk feather the Carja collectively decided to insist is a fine sword, but she knew he handled it well enough for her to not have to worry all that much. And even if the sword failed, she had his back. Carja halberds were next to toothless against the tough leather and armored plates made in the Claim.

Erend was a few steps away, keeping anyone who’d want to blindside them safely at bay with his hammer.

The Kestrels were their prime target, king Jiran’s elite fighters and honor guard. Well-armored and usually in command of other soldiers anywhere they went. But they still died. Sharpened hammer cracked metal plates as well as the ribs underneath them, sharp sword found a path between the hard machine shells and through the seams of the insulated padding.

It took what couldn’t be more than a dozen minutes before the third Kestrel fell, helmet bent into the skull at a sickeningly unnatural angle.

The last two guards didn’t like their chances. Confronted with broken bodies of king’s most faithful, their resolve started to crumble. Any good fighter could use the chance right now and finish them off, but Avad’s orders were clear: if there was the slightest chance of surrender without bloodshed, they were to take it. “Last chance. Give up and we won’t hurt you,” Ersa growled.

The men looked at one another, then back at their opponents, hesitating. Neither wanted to lose face and be the first to drop their weapon. Until two sharpened metal sheets hit the sun-baked stone in unison.

“Good choice,” the Oseram warrior huffed in satisfaction. Avad knelt at the last fallen soldier, whose body was still twitching, desperately trying to cling to the life that could not be saved.

“What now?” the braver of the two of Jiran’s men asked.

“We’ll keep our word. We won’t hurt you,” Ersa shrugged and kicked their weapons away from them and towards her brother. Behind her, she could hear a silent Carjan prayer just as the downed man breathed his last. “You were doing your job. As far as we’re concerned, you’re not the enemy. Just stay out of our way.”

Erend took their halberds and dropped them over the balustrade. They landed on one of the enclosed balconies below, way out of their reach.

“Go home to your families.” Avad stood back up, sheathing his sword. “See that your fallen comrades are taken care of. Or do your duty and ensure the people are not harmed in the fighting.”

Both of the guards, obviously still internally arguing about their chances, nodded.

“Ready to move?” Ersa asked the prince.

“Yes.”

She followed his gaze to where several priests were looking on from one of the windows of a nearby house, mumbling something under their crimson cowls. They wouldn’t be a problem, not as long as they moved fast enough. The whole city was practically locked down, unless one knew the layout of the streets under the streets.

And Avad knew it very well. He took them around the waterworks, across a small open patio and down a path hugging the wall of one of the outlying houses to a concealed tunnel Ersa was familiar with.

“This leads straight into the Palace,” he confirmed.

“Where have I seen that one before...” She was ready to swear even the cobweb in the corner was exactly where it had been when she was running in the opposite direction. The passage was wide enough for two of them side by side.

“Erend, you watch our back,” she said. Her brother replied with a “will do” and drew his hammer.

The underground tunnels cut deep in the stone dulled most of the sound, but each canon blast still sent a shockwave that rattled everyone and everything to the bone. Water at their feet rippled with every hit and small pebbles shook loose. Meridian had strong walls, but the Oseram artillery was bound to bring them to ruin sooner or later.

Even when they picked up the pace, the tunnel felt longer than how Ersa remembered it. Granted, all she could navigate by in the dark the last time was her hand along the wall. She was almost tempted to reach out and see if her fingers still remembered the texture.

They were nearing the exit, when something caught her attention at the corner of her eye. A slightly darker shade briefly ran across the dimly lit walls of the stairwell, trying to not be seen. “Someone’s here,” she announced. It was aimed mostly at Avad, but she kept her voice loud enough for the sneaking enemy to hear, too. All three of them stopped in their tracks, focused on their surroundings. For a few brief seconds, it seemed there was nothing to warn against.

Then, a slender figure stepped down to block their way. It belonged to an older Carja man. At first glance, Ersa would never guess him to be a warrior, but then again, compared to the usual company she had around the other Oseram freebooters, very few Carja seemed to be. She held her weapon at the ready either way, even though the stranger had yet to declare any hostile intentions.

But then he stepped further into the tunnel and the refracted light finally chased away enough shadows from his face for Ersa to recognize the silver hair and the permanently thoughtful, slightly sly expression.

“Marad...” Avad greeted him with a nod and a cordial tone. Judicious Marad, that was his official name. But all the slaves as well as half the guardsmen at the Palace had always called him Marad the All-seeing. Officially, he was a mere adviser to the king. But Ersa knew a spymaster – maybe not when she saw one, but definitely when she had to live with one under the same roof for several months.

The older Carja glanced over her and her brother before turning to the prince, seemingly studying his expression. Then his hand went to procure something from under his robe. When he held out a hand, a single ornate key rested in his palm. “You will find him locked in the Solarium,” he said. “He is alone.”

“And my brother and the queen?” Avad asked, taking the key.

The older Carja shook his head. “The king ordered them escorted out of the city a few days ago, shortly prior to your arrival. They are traveling with a Kestrel guard strong in numbers, as well as many prominent clergymen.”

“So that’s why the city’s so lousily guarded,” Erend grumbled.

“Commander Helis and high priest Bahavas are with them as well,” Marad continued. “For... protection and spiritual support, I believe.” The amount of sarcasm dripping from the last sentence almost made Ersa declare the man trustworthy right on the spot. It was always nice to see the spite for two of Jiran’s closest lackeys wasn’t a thing exclusive to the Oseram.

“Thank you,” Avad answered somberly, and as his second, Ersa silently took note he omitted the ‘my friend’ that usually followed. He wasn’t letting his guard down. Good.

The royal adviser nodded curtly and stepped out of their way. “May the Sun guide you,” he added the traditional Carja wish.

“The Sun’s sure gonna be busy today,” Ersa mumbled to herself.

As all three of them ascended the stairs towards the Solarium, they found that Marad was indeed telling the truth. There was no one left in the palace but the king. Pacing through the small gazebo on the top platform left and right like an agitated Sawtooth, muttering something only he could understand. Just the same as Ersa remembered him. Jiran’s reign had been a reflection of the man himself. Cornered, unhinged and on its last legs. The Kestrels had fought for their king against a prince who’d fought for their people, even with elite training, they didn’t stand a chance. All that was needed was a strong push.

And Ersa found her brother more than eager to provide it, hammer raised high. Avad held out a hand to stop him. Erend huffed in protest, but backed down and lowered his weapon. Ersa gave him a reassuring nod and handed a silent signal. Just because they were told to stand down, it didn’t mean they wouldn’t watch Jiran’s every move.

The young Carja then stepped out into the bright daylight covering the Solarium, the Sun and Oseram steel at his back. “Father,” he called to the other man, making him stop dead in his tracks like an alarmed machine. “Step down. Give up your crown and end this madness.” And even though the word “please” followed immediately after, it, without a doubt, a command.

“You,” came the spiteful response as the old king zeroed in on his son like a faulty Watcher. “Who are you to question my rule, boy?” Unhinged as he was, there was something shining through the insanity. Something that may have been the man Jiran had been a long time ago. A king. “I don’t know how you bewitched my people...”

 _‘They believe in him, you moron.’_ Ersa swallowed the words, but couldn’t suppress a smirk when she heard her brother quietly growl the same thing, word for word.

„But the Sun will ensure it's the last thing you do!“

“It's over,” Avad continued, undeterred. „The city is yours no longer. Nobles and commoners are turning against you and your reign as we speak.“

“No... no... nobody can leave their god! The god forbids it!”

Ersa winced at the words. Jiran meant every one of them. And that was the worst and saddest part of it all. Whatever was left of the man was now gone quicker than a blaze-covered fuse.

“You are **not** a god,” Avad said sternly, surprising both his companions. Ersa quickly went through her memory to try and find a moment when she’d heard Avad’s voice grow stark with anger. She couldn’t think of any. He didn’t shout, but the contrast to his usual demeanor was still more than a little chilling. “Your reign will be remembered as that of a butcher. How many have died in the name of the Sun?”

“Only the weak!”

“Only the Oseram, the Nora, the Utaru and the Banuk. Only your own tribe. Your own blood,” Avad’s voice dropped into a disgusted growl. Jiran recoiled as if physically struck; the prince defied him, and Ersa was sure if there were a priest within the earshot, he would have dropped dead on the spot from the heresy. Nobody dared say out loud what almost everyone deep down knew. “Step down. You cannot fight the entire city.”

Instead of responding, the old Carja just bared his teeth like a panic-crazed beast, eyes wide as he backed into a corner. Something gleamed in the warm rays of light shining into the Solarium.

And then it was over.

Mad King’s son stood over his father’s cooling corpse, the old kingdom dead at his feet. It had happened so fast that neither Oseram reacted before it was too late. A sharp blade had appeared in Jiran’s hand, ringing loudly as it struck an obstacle, its red tip briefly flying through the air, until it was the prince suddenly holding it just as a wet sound of steel meeting flesh reached their ears.

And for the first time since the fight started, Ersa felt fear creep up her spine. Not so much for Avad’s health; it was fairly obvious which one of the two men was left standing. But the young prince was a decent man who, for better or worse, let his conscience decide his actions. Decent men hesitated when forced to kill in cold blood.

But Avad didn’t flinch when he deflected the blade in his father’s hand away from his own neck and into the king’s chest.

There was some part of her, however small, that feared that she had been wrong all this time and there was some of his father’s madness in his veins, waiting for just the right snap to come loose. The whole thing about apples and trees wasn’t without its merit, after all. It took her a few seconds to shake the initial surprise and take a step forward, just as Avad finally let go of the hilt of Jiran’s ornate dagger. She felt relief when he turned to face her and there was not a trace of rage or madness. Even as an Oseram, she was willing to go and praise his damn Sun for that.

“Erend, find Balahn’s group, tell them to let the people know the Mad King’s dead.” Stepping in and solving things. It was a natural instinct. She was the second in command for a reason and it had a calming effect getting back in tune with the role.

Before she knew it, her hand clasped Avad’s shoulder, as if trying to make sure he was grounded in reality. She felt his hand on her own arm in return. But then her attention was dragged towards his chest, where one of the feather-like armor scales jutted off in an awkward angle. There was torn cloth stuck between the plates, and the white silk under the armor padding started taking in a distinctively red color.

“Wait,” the freebooter called after her brother. “Find the adviser. The Marad guy. Tell him to send a good healer.”

Erend nodded yes over his shoulder and ran for the gate. Ersa and Avad were left alone.

The Carja prince reached up with his uninjured arm to remove his helm, before he sat at one of the sofas, finally daring to show at least some of the tiredness he must have felt. He let Ersa’s fingers move through the clasps on his chest armor with well-practiced skill, tilting his head to the side to ease her work.

She carefully removed the damaged plates and the protective lining underneath. Blood appeared, smearing her fingers, but the amount wasn't worrying. She undid the button on the collar and gently pushed it to the side, revealing a dark red gash where Jiran's blade bit through the armor. It ended up deflected from what was probably meant to be a blow to the heart to a few inches higher, cutting across the clavicle. The bone prevented the dagger from hitting deeper. Dark-colored blood slowly oozed from the wound. It was nothing to die over, but rather the kind of injury most Oseram brag about when it leaves an impressive scar. Somehow, she doubted this would be the case.

Ersa experimentally poked the edge of the wound, scouting for a reaction. Avad barely flinched, but she knew that even if he was riding an adrenaline high, that would eventually end, and fatigue would come back with a vengeance. “Fire and spit, would you finally say something, you’re creeping me out,” she scowled.

The Carja returned a crooked smile. “There is not much to say, is there?”

She scowled harder. “No. I guess not,” she admitted, eyes focused back on the cut in his chest. His voice sounded normal. It didn’t break with shock or ring with the dull echo of an absent mind.

The Oseram scrambled together the insulated cloth that was left inside his armor shell and pressed it against his chest to slow the bleeding further. “It's really over,” she let out a deep breath she didn't know she was holding. Her brain tried to focus on the next task beyond keeping him safe until the healer arrives, and found nothing to latch onto. They did it. They successfully organized and led a revolution.

“For now,” Avad admitted, and Ersa felt him slowly lean into her side, as if he realized he didn't have to hold himself upright anymore.

The news outside spread and a roar of emotions erupted in the streets, but the Palace stood as a shield against the commotion. Ersa was grateful for the short reprieve. And somehow, she knew he shared the sentiment.

\---------------------------

Eastern sky was starting to turn pale, announcing that a new sun was about to enter the world.

Meridian’s royal palace was dark and silent. And for the first time in years, peaceful. Slowly dying, the night left thick shadows to mercifully cover all the scars the old stone had to recently endure. The blood was scrubbed clean, all broken pieces carefully removed.

Avad stood at the eastern balcony, overlooking the distant mountain range that marked the Sundom's border.

The Palace was completely empty except for him. For one night, he was to be alone among the generations-old sandstone walls to “quietly reflect upon the weight of works of the past”. When the first rays touch the Spire, he will be escorted to his coronation. To be judged, as the new Sun decides if he is a worthy vessel. He wondered if anyone had ever failed that test.

He wasn’t entirely sure if the priests would be happy with him for tonight, as he couldn’t honestly say he’d been all that successful as far as religious reminiscing was concerned. But he did indeed reflect on the past, it was just a much more recent past than the clergy had intended.

The prince thought about the past year, remembering every settlement, every face that supported the cause against Jiran’s reign. He found it a somewhat bitter irony that it was superstition that gave them their final victory; the simple fact that the Sun had not set with his father’s death was interpreted by the priests that Jiran was no longer the ruler chosen by divine, winning over most of the clergy.

He tried to sort out all he felt during those months and during the final hours of what was newly being hailed as the Liberation. Hatred towards himself for his blindness and towards his father for his cruelty. Sorrow over every man he was forced to kill. Heartbreak at seeing a daughter raise weapon against father, brother against brother. But also hope, determination, love, compassion, pride...

He thought about which of those a king needs to be a good leader to his people and what was the right amount – all the things he had never expected to have to think about as the second son.

But now, that second son was about to shoulder the weight of a crown. He knew he had been wrong to agree that anything was over. Nobles were riled up. Other tribes were openly hostile after years of raids and blood sacrifice. And half his own people were digging in at Sunfall, worshiping his little brother as the rightful heir. Right now, his kingdom-to-be was celebrating the end of a civil war, but he knew another was brewing just around the corner. Or rather, just across the Daybrink.

He had barely moved through the night. Mostly, he found himself sitting or standing alone in the dark, only vaguely remembering moving himself from the previous location. He’d lost the track of time. Even the wound on his collarbone where his father’s blade had struck him was only a dull ache now, and not just because of the strong herbal tinctures the healer had applied in abundance.

But suddenly, some part of him that was sharpened and tempered by a year-long need to fight registered an intruder. A quiet clink of Oseram steel meeting steel and creaks of hardened leather. That didn’t leave many candidates, in spite of the many members of the northern tribe currently residing in the city.

“You know, according to tradition, I am supposed to be alone and meditate,” he said when the visitor approached.

“Why?” asked a well-known feminine voice.

“To think about the great deeds of my blessed predecessors.” Avad could swear he tried to not mock the tone the orthodox priesthood used when quoting scripture. The attempt couldn’t remotely be called successful.

“That’s stupid,” the Oseram warrior scoffed, but her reply lacked its usual biting edge. “Should I leave?”

Avad smiled. “No,” he replied, perhaps a bit too fast. They barely found time to breathe in the past few days, let alone talk in private. And he was worried to admit to himself he missed her presence at his side. “You have every right to be here. This is just as much your doing as it is mine.” Perhaps even more so.

“Funny, I thought you liked peace and quiet,” she teased him, taking her place by his side. 

“Ah, the two things circumstance and Oseram army taught me to give up on ever knowing again...” he mused with a smile.

Ersa groaned, bumping his shoulder in mock irritation, and they both shared a quiet laugh. When the Oseram moved to step back away from his personal space, Avad barely realized his hand moved to stop her, fingers brushing against her side. He made a mental note to refrain from doing that. At least publicly. Beginning tomorrow.

“Any news on my brother?” he asked her instead, only to find her shaking her head.

“Not really. They keep digging themselves in at that desert fort of theirs, calling you a murderous traitor and proclaiming a five-year old their one true king.” Her brow furrowed as she went through her memory. “Oh, and yelling something about shadows?”

“Of course...” Of course superstition would play for both sides. 

“Marad said he would send someone there to look after them. Some woman, I think. He wanted to talk to you when this was done.” Ersa gestured at nothing in particular around them.

Avad nodded, more to himself than to anything else. “Thank you,” he answered quietly. He thought they would simply fall into the usual comfortable silence, but he felt the Oseram shuffle around nervously. She always did that when there was something she didn’t really want to talk about, but felt it needed to be said.

“How are you handling it?” she asked.

The Carja sighed. “I still do not regret what I’ve done,” he shook his head. “At least not the thing you are asking about. I only feel sorry that I felt that solution was necessary.”

“And was it?” Her voice went without a hint of snark. She wasn’t doubting him, it was a genuine question about what he believed.

Avad’s shoulders twitched with a shrug. “I also suppose I could try saying the man I knew in my father had died a long time ago. But that would not be true.” He remembered his father’s kindness, and he knew it had the same roots as the cruelty. “I’m not sure if what I did had to happen. If there truly was no other choice. I don’t expect to ever know for sure.”But he had to make things better and that was the only way he saw. And the only way circumstance allowed him to take.

“Yeah, funny how fathers can be such colossal dicks sometimes, right.” Darkness around them hid most of her bitter expression, but he could still hear the emotion in her tone.

“In this case, I concur,” he admitted. Even though that probably wouldn’t have been his choice of words, they did convey the sentiment much better.

He only hoped that Itamen was too young to inherit their common sire’s poison, too.

“But is that really why you’re here?” he asked, his voice finding the curious and doubtful tone he used to apply when he’d been still a prince suspecting the slave girl he’d been asking about her northern home is trying to evade his questions.

Ersa let out a mildly frustrated noise; a telltale sign he found the right thing to ask. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It just felt right, coming here.” Her fingers brushed the dressed wound carefully concealed by the ceremonial garb. “It’s probably the last chance to talk before... you know. Everything changes,” she answered simply.

So that was it then. Avad wished he had something to say in return. He just found her hand with his, holding both to his chest.

Their time together consisted of short stolen moments, the one right now being a perfect example, and there was no hope that would change soon or even ever. But he still couldn’t turn away. He never could, not even at the start. Back then, in the middle of a revolution, they had both been too beaten, too worn down, too numb to stop, to get second thoughts or argue the irresponsibility of their actions. And now it was too late. At least he told himself as much.

It was as convenient an excuse as any other.

He felt his heartbeat echo off the palm of her hand. Most of his life, it was the Palace that provided him with a solid foundation. But not anymore. She was his strength now. It was a careful compromise they had forged together; Ersa was the driving force that urged him to fight to stand his ground, and Avad knew he was the voice of reason and conscience holding her back before she could go too far. A natural balance.

And he found himself once again in a deep divide between Avad the prince – or soon to be king – and an underlying instinct. One had in his hands a fragile peace of an entire kingdom, the other a simple human heart. And one was just about to lose the fight. “I did mean what I said. I wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for you.”

“And don’t you dare forget it,” she said in a mock threatening tone, but her expression softened. “But you realize that if not for you, none of us would really be here, either. Right?”

A balance. That was what a leader needed. And that was exactly what he had when she was at his side. He silently promised them both he would find a way. “I will keep that in mind.”

He felt her smile against his skin. “Good.”

\---------------------------

There was no sign of sun on the midnight sky, no moon to reflect it.

Everything outside was swallowed by a cold starless dark. Just like years ago. The irony of the situation, of course, wasn’t lost on her. Once again she was skulking through the darkened halls of the Palace, gathering necessary gear, trying to be as silent as possible, getting ready to sneak out into the night. Except now, it wasn’t Ersa the slave, running out of the reach of the Sundom, but rather Ersa the Vanguard, going to fight for the very same realm she’d sought to overthrow. And these two women felt like a lifetime apart, if it weren’t for the small details tethering them together.

Small details like Dervahl.

Her fingers laced with practiced ease through the straps and knots of the hard leather armor that had become like a second skin to her in the past two years. Weapons were all sharpened, oiled and ready to kill. And she was determined to use them tonight. Last time she’d seen the Oseram tinker, he had called her a Sun bastard’s whore. She wondered if it left a scar when she punched him hard enough to tear his cheek.

A parley. She’d never have thought he’d stoop that low. Despite the insults many Carja nobles spat her way, she was far from stupid. Of course it was a trap.

But Dervahl was no threat. Just a broken husk of a man that had been a thorn in their side entirely too long. And she would solve him just like she solved everything else. She got up to leave, but something made her stop and turn to the man still soundly sleeping behind her. _‘He wouldn’t agree to this, of course not,’_ her conscience reminded her, but she drove the thought away. Some things just couldn’t be left to rot under careful diplomacy. Sometimes, you had to go and take a hit to make things better. If you didn’t, you just got another Sunfall.

All she had to do was gather her best men and leave the supposed Sun incarnate in the dark for a few hours. If all goes well, she’ll be back before dawn to face his silent disapproval. Worst case scenario, she’ll stumble back around noon and add being careful around a few unpleasant bruises to the list of temporary inconveniences. Either way, this whole ordeal will be done by tomorrow and she’ll spend the day arguing about how even the best diplomat couldn’t negotiate with certified crazy. She was already well used to that particular conversation, anyway.

Ersa smiled as her fingers gently traced Avad’s temple. She loved him. She would do anything for him. Then, her smile twisted bitter with regret. She would do **anything** for him. She hated how that simple wish kept demanding more and more secrets, more and more deception. She was still an Oseram, her word was supposed to be honest and her conscience clear. But her life was among the Carja now. And that meant more lies to live with and truths to bury under them. A necessary sacrifice to keep him safe. To keep safe them both.

She almost wanted to say she was sorry, but she just bit her tongue instead, retreating behind the stern facade of the Vanguard Captain. There was work to do. She still needed to gather her men and time was running short if she wanted to get to Sun Furrows on time. The Oseram warrior stood up and letting out a sigh, turned to step into the night.

She was to never see the Palace again.

**Author's Note:**

> This originally only had the two first scenes. The third part was inspired by a very lovely piece of fan art I unfortunately cannot find anywhere in the world of internet, so you will have to believe me on the record of its lovely qualities. And the rest... was sort of asking for it.
> 
> Please, accept my apologies for the radio silence, as my life turned to things and ceremonies that don't really take kindly to "No, I won't come, I'm writing a Horizon fanfiction!" (However, to those curious about _Legacy_ , I have been slowly building it over the past weeks, and eventually, it will receive the final push for the next chapter to go online.)
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you had fun reading this, and as always, I will always be happy to hear your thoughts to ponder them.


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